


La belle dame sans merci

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Sorceresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-19 00:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: wake, shy, orange.Story now complete.Illya is put under a spell - Napoleon comes to the rescue





	1. Chapter 1

No words were spoken between them; the interview was conducted in silence under her penetrating gaze. He hadn’t looked at her and strangely conscious that his carefully constructed outer shell was being gently prised away, he maintained a neutral expression, scarcely blinking, his breathing slow and shallow, his hands relaxed in his lap, his posture upright.

She turned away and her pen’s scratching sounded loud in this quiet room. For a moment he relaxed his shoulders and took a deeper breath. Once she turned back to take a further look. Then she pressed a call button and a guard immediately entered to release him from the chair and take him away.

“I will see you again tomorrow, Mr Kuryakin,” she said and, looking up as he was led away, he saw that she had strange, pale, almost silver eyes.

Food and drink were brought to him in his relatively comfortably appointed cell and, as the sky outside had darkened, they said the lights would be turned out soon – he’d better go to bed.

Kuryakin lay pondering a unique experience. There had been no violence, yet he felt violated, stripped bare of all protective covering. He had never intended to speak, even to answer questions, but she hadn’t asked any – not verbally. Was she a mind-reader? Who was she? Why had no-one mentioned her before in briefings?

Maybe she didn’t like physical violence and that was why he wasn’t being beaten or drugged. He wasn’t complaining. If she was using silence to provoke him into speaking, she would get nowhere. He didn’t need to speak; he wasn’t embarrassed by long silences. What did she want?

<><><> 

Lights remained on in other rooms in the building including one in which Thrush’s unusual interviewer was considering her notes.

Those hands were the giveaway. That youthful, slender figure with the cool, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth manner was belied by his large, strong hands – a man’s hands, not a boy’s. He wasn’t as shy and retiring as he affected to be, but a man of action, a man who could assert himself; someone who would be difficult to influence; difficult to turn from the path he had chosen; difficult, indeed, to know. But the hands also suggested other interesting possibilities that she could play on.

Now, how to break his shell? She had tapped on its attractive exterior almost enough to crack it. She had watched every rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, every heartbeat in the pulse in his neck; every faint movement of the muscles keeping him upright, every tiny quiver of the skin round the blue eyes; she had counted every blink; she had heard the deeper breath. A shy, self-effacing personality would not have the confidence to maintain a demeanour so self-contained and uninterested. Who and what was he? She knew his name, had read the somewhat inaccurate file Thrush had on him. A second interview would have to really break the shell – enough to find the creature within. And break him. She hadn’t been given much time.

<><><> 

The sound of a key in the door was enough to wake him when breakfast arrived. Kuryakin sat up sharply, smelling coffee and bacon. The man who brought it put the tray down gently and left, locking the door behind him. Kuryakin sipped the glass of orange juice carefully, shrugged, then finished the glass and started on the meal.

They must have been aware of all his movements because as soon as he was dressed, they came for him. No-one spoke. All orders were delivered by gesture.

He could smell grass and the scent of flowers through an open window somewhere. Sunshine poured into the corridor from an open door. Disoriented to be imprisoned and treated so oddly in such domestic surroundings, he nevertheless walked impassive and expressionless between his guards.

He sat down in front of The Psychologist, as he identified her in his mind – and waited. Once more, she said no word but now watched his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Puzzled, he watched her face and remained silent. She didn’t seem interested in whether he spoke or not. He kept his hands still, aware that in times of stress he had a betraying tendency to rub fingers and thumb together; he would give nothing away.

As the silence continued, his thoughts wandered. Did anyone know where he was? Would they come? When? Was he being kept for some hideous thought experiment? To break his will and force him to tell them UNCLE’s secrets?

He raised his head and, looking into her eyes, found he couldn’t look away. He heard a voice… her lips weren’t moving … strange questions were in his mind … and he realised that it was the sound of his own voice replying.

<><><> 

Back in his cell, he lay down exhausted and went to sleep.

An alarm … a smell of smoke… cries of ‘Fire!’. He woke, leapt up and banged on his door, shouting but no-one came. He pushed bedding against the bottom of the door to prevent the smoke coming in, and continued to bang on the door till he heard feet running.

“He’s here,” said a muffled voice. “Quick! Get him out. Stand back, Illya, we’re going to blow the door!”

A gush of thick smoke poured in, a gas mask was pushed over his face and they led him out and ran. Outside, Illya stood alone, pale and confused as his mask was removed. Someone took him by the shoulders.

“Illya, Illya, look at me! What have they done to you?”

He stood looking haggard and woebegone. “Where is she? Who are you?” he said.

“It’s me – Napoleon … Illya?”

 “Napoleon died a long time ago.”

“Not that one, Illya. Don’t you know me?”

“No… Do I know you?”

“You do.”

“Oh… Where is she?”

“Who? The Thrush woman?”

“There’s nothing she doesn’t know …”

“About what?”

“I told her everything…” Illya said, almost to himself. “She listened. No-one ever asked me before… no-one ever understood. Have you seen her eyes! She said she loved me.”

“My God,” whispered Napoleon, suddenly realising what his friend’s condition meant. Illya had always resisted hypnotism – what had she done? What had Illya been induced to say?

“She’s being treated for burns,” he said. And to forestall Illya’s anguish, he said, “What did you tell her, Illya? About UNCLE?”

Too late: Illya was wringing his hands, not listening.

“What did you tell her, Illya?” he repeated.

“I told her I loved her,” he wept.

<><><><><> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon does his best to prove that Illya has not betrayed any secrets.

<><><>

 

Waverly looked grave. “And you can get nothing more from him?”

“Not so far, sir. He’s like a lost soul. I don’t know whether she managed to get him to tell her anything important. If she did, she will have passed it on already … Won’t she?”

“She may have, but Mr Kuryakin has had all the necessary training to give false answers. That ought to mean he has said nothing significant.”

“How can we break the spell he’s under?”

“Merely hypnosis, Mr Solo,” said Waverly severely. “Our own psychologists are working on that.”

Napoleon kept his opinions to himself on that subject. “I’d like to visit the lady herself,” he said.

“Is she able to see anyone?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I think I’ll take specially-treated glasses. Illya said something about her strange eyes.”

<><><> 

Napoleon entered the room where the woman was lying, heavily bandaged. She had serious burns on her body, and some of her hair had been caught. Though weak, she was now awake and turned her silver gaze on him. For a moment he was transfixed before realising that the glasses had slipped down his nose. The feeling of weakness disappeared when he pushed them up again.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “How are you?”

“As you see, Mr Solo.”

“Ah, you know _my_ name, but I don’t know yours.”

“I am Doctor LaFay. I assume _you_ have come to see me instead of Illya. Was he hurt in the fire, too? Is he all right?”

“No need to worry about him, Doctor. He’s fine. Quite recovered.”

She smiled. “I doubt it, Napoleon,” she said, now using his first name.

“Meaning?”

“You’ll see.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing, Napoleon. He fell in love with me, that’s all.”

“It’s strangely unlike him. I’d be interested to know how you achieved it.”

“I’m sure you are perfectly familiar with what happens when a man and a woman get together… He wants to be loved, he needs love, he’s lonely, he longs for home. He told me so.”

Napoleon had tried not to look at her eyes – even with the mirror lenses and special coating, his glasses were almost not enough. He was almost taken in. What was she _saying_? Illya _never_ talked about himself, never revealed his inmost thoughts – not even to Napoleon. And, as far as he knew, certainly to no female.

“So, what else did you learn?” he asked.

“Oh, let’s see. He told me of his misgivings about his work, his colleagues, his chief… and about you, of course. Ah, I see you don’t believe me – but it’s true.”

“Your powers of persuasion, Doctor, are remarkable. You even believe your own nonsense.”

For a moment her features contracted and the strange eyes were hooded, releasing him briefly from their power. He put aside the slightly troubling things she’d said and thought hard. If Illya had told her anything significant she would boast about it, wouldn’t she? What would Thrush most like to know… Codes? Call sign frequencies? All the entrances to UNCLE headquarters?

Accustomed to getting information from his taciturn partner by carefully indirect questions, he asked, “Do you know where you are?”

“Of course.”

Also accustomed to this kind of unhelpful answer from his partner, he continued, “Which entrance did they bring you in by?”

She smiled. “The appropriate one.”

They’d make a good pair, he thought – both as maddening as each other. “How would you know? That one’s under repair,” he lied.

“Is it indeed?”

Damn. This one was definitely as bad as Illya.

“I’m not sure that you were actually conscious at that point, Doctor,” he said smoothly

She frowned a little. “Come to the point, Napoleon,” she said. “You’re beating about the bush.”

“Just chatting, you know. I’m curious about your techniques of persuasion.”

“If you take your glasses off, I’ll show you.”

“Oh, no. You won’t catch me that way – unprepared, like you caught Illya. Tell me what you asked him.”

“I didn’t need to ask him anything. He just poured it all out. And, in case you’re wondering, I passed it all on to my employers.”

Napoleon smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s all I need to know. What’s your first name, by the way?”

“Morgana,” she said with a sly smile.

It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He said goodbye and left the secure medical unit to return to UNCLE headquarters.

<><><> 

“I’m going to do a stake-out, tonight, Illya,” he said.

 “What are you watching for?” said Illya. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m under suspicion – you can’t answer that.”

“I don’t suspect you of any betrayal, my friend. Listen, do you recall anything of your anti-hypnosis training?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I looked at the notes of your session – something we can’t do when it’s our own record, for obvious reasons.”

“And?”

“And I found it interesting. If your Thrush lady has indeed passed on anything you told her, I’ll find out tonight.” He paused and said diffidently, “Do you know what else you told her – about yourself?”

“No… that is, I’m not sure.”

“You don’t remember saying that you were lonely and homesick?”

“Certainly not. I’m neither.”

“Or that you don’t trust anyone here at UNCLE?”

“Absolutely not. Or if I did, it would be because of conditioning training.”

“So, it was just that you said you loved her.”

There was a silence, then, “Is she all right? When can I see her?”

“Illya … You can’t see her. She’s dangerous – she has you in her power.”

“I know,” he said reluctantly, looking hurt and unhappy. “I had a dream last night.”

Napoleon looked at him sympathetically. “What dream was that?”

“She took me to a hillside above a stagnant lake, and left me alone among other dead knights, her former lovers, lying there naked. They spoke to me…”

Napoleon waited. “What did they say?” he asked gently.

“… It doesn’t matter. She’s left me … I can’t forget her.”

<><><> 

Napoleon watched the building opposite. He’d been there for over an hour. The street lights showed empty sidewalks, and empty road. Nothing was happening and Napoleon was beginning to wonder if his hopes had been misplaced.

Another hour passed, and then, a light like a firefly appeared, dancing along in the shadows under the building… someone with a pencil flashlight, using it very sparingly. Napoleon opened his eyes wide in the darkness. It stopped and a figure revealed itself as it stepped back into the light to look up at a window above. There was a sudden movement and the sound of breaking glass – and the fainter sound of running feet in soft-soled shoes.

Napoleon dropped down from his own window just in time. An explosion rent the air shattering all the windows around and setting off a number of alarms.

He picked himself up and tried to shake off the shattered glass that covered him.  “Well, that was most satisfactory,” he said, sucking a cut finger. “Pity about all this broken glass.”

<><><> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now all Napoleon has to do is convince Illya of the truth of what happened to him.

<><><> 

“Yes, indeed, sir, but my theory seems to have been proved right – we needn’t worry about what Illya passed on. It was only the information he was trained to deliver under duress.”

“A fact you have discovered at considerable cost,” Waverly grumbled. “The accounts department isn’t pleased about the mess in that building and all those broken windows.”

“But think what we’ve gained.”

“I _am_ thinking, and I don’t think we have. Mr Kuryakin is not yet free of that hypnosis – surely you can see that? We can’t allow him back into the field as an enforcement agent until he is less self-absorbed.”

“I guess not,” Napoleon admitted. “But I still think it’s a spell, with longer-lasting side-effects.”

“Such as?” Waverly’s tone was sceptical.

“He’s ‘in love’,” said Napoleon sketching quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “She has bewitched and then abandoned him. He’s lost.”

Waverly snorted. “You young men,” he said. “You need to start using your brains to think with rather than your …” he bit his lip. “Forgotten what I was going to say.”

“But Illya _doesn’t_ ,” said Napoleon, not misunderstanding him. “You might accuse _me_ of that, but not him… and I don’t either, actually.”

Waverly frowned at him. “What’s the solution then? Answer me that! Using your cerebral cortex, this time.”

“I don’t know, sir. If she could be persuaded to release him… but she won’t. I believe her value to Thrush was that she told them she could destroy UNCLE, and any of us as functioning agents without using a weapon. To prove it, she chose Illya as her victim.”

Waverly, watching his senior agent, saw his face change suddenly. “Mr Solo?”

“Nothing… I just had an idea. I need to think … will you excuse me, sir?”

<><><> 

Napoleon went to the library but instead of researching hypnosis, which had been his first thought, he went to the section containing poetry and then to medieval literature and its influences.

It was in the latter aspect that he found what he was looking for in – of all things – Marvel comics. Grateful that a librarian, with a broad interpretation of potential sources of information, had acquired them, he sat for some time poring over them. He selected and gathered together a small pile and returned to the office where he found Illya sitting staring blankly into space. He looked up when Napoleon entered but did not respond to his partner’s smile.

“I think I’ve found the source of the Thrush lady’s ideas,” Napoleon announced.

“Have you?” said Illya listlessly.

“See here,” and he put the gaudy magazines down on Illya’s desk.

“Have you been buying up the local comic store now?”

“No, believe it or not, the library collects these as examples of cultural phenomena.”

“Good grief.”

“Did the Thrush lady ever tell you her name?”

Illya wrinkled his brow. “No, she didn’t. Why?”

Napoleon bent over Illya’s desk and opened a book of poetry and one of the comics. “Read that,” he said, pointing to one of the stories, and went to sit down. Illya sniffed dismissively and put his glasses on. He would never admit it, but he had developed a weakness for comic books ever since he’d had to read one to some kid, once.

He finished the story and closed the comic. “What am I supposed to make of this?” he said.

“Your Thrush lady calls herself Morgana LaFay, which I take to be a pseudonym – no-one could possibly be called that. She’s pretending to be the sorceress who wants to take over the world.”

Ignoring Illya’s sceptical look, Napoleon continued, “I think she’s chosen you to embody some heroic character like the Dark Knight, and destroy you to prove herself to whoever she’s trying to impress in Thrush.”

“Napoleon, you are talking unmitigated nonsense.”

“I don’t think so, Illya. She’s somehow used the power of suggestion to get into your mind and make you fall for her. She said you’d poured your heart out to her – even though she hadn’t asked you anything.”

“She never spoke,” said Illya, “– or only once, after the first session, to say she would see me again.”

“She didn’t speak? Not at all?”

“No, not during either session.”

“Why did you speak then?”

Illya looked at him painfully. “I don’t know, Napoleon. I just heard myself replying out loud to questions in my mind. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Napoleon sat thinking. “You might have told her things you hadn’t been trained to hide – things about yourself – but you didn’t tell her anything important about UNCLE. I think we can be sure of that after last night’s little exercise.”

“Will she be in trouble for what happened last night?” said Illya, apparently wanting to deflect attention from himself.

“Doesn’t matter if she is – we’ll put her out of harm’s way. But that doesn’t help you.”

It was clear that Illya wasn’t thinking on those lines. He looked anxious. “Is she being protected?” he said, ready for action, seeking the adrenaline rush and automatically feeling for his gun.

“She’s in the locked unit.”

“A lock anyone could get past. I can.”

“Well, don’t try, Illya. She doesn’t love you. You don’t love her. She’s put a spell on you.”

“There’s no such thing as spells, Napoleon,” said Illya, completely exasperated and wanting to get away.

“Okay, she’s put a story into your mind, then. I don’t know how – she certainly has strange eyes, quite hypnotic. Maybe she sent you into a suggestible state, like just before you go to sleep when you’re half dreaming. And that’s when she did speak.”

Illya closed his eyes and thought back. “I heard a voice in my _mind_ ,” he insisted.

“I don’t think you did, Illya. Read that poem…”

Illya read it and looked up wide-eyed. “I’d forgotten this,” he said.  

“See what I mean? You heard her tell you a story – a variation on the old theme of the beautiful fairy queen who falls for a young knight. I’m willing to bet she warned you that she’d leave you among all her other dead lovers if you didn’t tell her what she asked.”

Illya shook his head in denial.

“She gave you that dream. Illya…” Napoleon looked at his friend. “But you can choose to break the spell by changing the story. It’s how story-telling works. It’s all variations on a theme – you can change the plot; you can rewrite the ending.”

“All right, suggest a different plot, if you’re such a great story-teller.”

Napoleon smiled. “You can change the elements of your dream and defy her power. Bring everything back to life, the lake, the knights, everything. Put yourself in armour – iron sucks the magic out of fairy folk.”

“Iron! Fairy folk!” Illya snorted.

“I’m serious, Illya. Tell yourself the story and change the ending.”

“Is this your version of behavioural therapy?”

“In a way, I guess. Hadn’t thought of it in those terms.” Napoleon thought for a moment, watched by his suspicious partner. “You know, we live very strange lives – constantly under stress, constantly in fear of being shot at or worse. We’re head-cases, even if we don’t recognise the fact.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“It’s more than likely we’re all susceptible to what would be severe depression and anxiety in other people. We don’t realise because we mask it with regular shots of adrenaline.”

Illya looked slightly less unconvinced.

“You said yourself, you were under her control but kept in a very calm, domestic setting. No adrenaline. You were anxious.”

“Mm.”

“So, give up the adrenaline – I’ll drive you home so you can sit quietly and try Dr Solo’s therapy.”

Illya glared at him for a moment, and then rose. “All right. I’ll try it… but…”

“Don’t ask, Illya. She’ll be dealt with when she’s recovered. You don’t need to be involved.”

They walked together down the corridor towards the elevator, Illya looking straight ahead, stony-faced as Napoleon acknowledged everyone who passed them. One young woman, new to UNCLE and with a soft spot for Illya, plucked up courage to smile at him, only to be dismayed and hurt when he rebuffed her by walking straight past, completely ignoring her.

Napoleon allowed Illya to get a few steps ahead and whispered, “It’s not you, Nancy. He’s very shy… doesn’t trust women. How about dinner tonight… talk to you later?” before lengthening his pace to catch up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgan Le Fey (why the masculine ‘le’ I’ve no idea - it's an anglicisation from the French for ‘the fairy’, la fée) appears in Arthurian legend in various guises: a powerful enchantress, a goddess, the sister of King Arthur. In Marvel comics, and elsewhere, in even more guises. Sometimes well-intentioned, but often evil.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Title from John Keats’ poem “La belle dame sans merci” – the pitiless fairy woman who seduces the young knight with her wild eyes: “Ah what can ail thee, knight at arms, so haggard and so woebegone… La Belle Dame sans Merci hath thee in thrall!”


End file.
